


Surfacing

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Bigender John/Johanna, Coming Out, Genderqueer Character, Happy Ending, Mentions of Aftercare, Mentions of Impact Play, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Polyamory, Trans Character, mentions of wax play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John doesn’t actually change so much, Harold isn’t deterred in the slightest, and Shaw has no clue what the hell is going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They danced around it for a long time even though they were both hyper aware of it.

They’d worked together for too long, been friends for too long and loved each other long enough that it wasn’t something they could miss anymore.

It only showed up briefly, but it was there with rapidly increasing frequency. It was there in the way John sometimes lay with his face pressed into Harold side in the middle of the night, curled up and small. Or maybe it was the way his head bowed when Harold held him by the face when John knelt before him. The way he stood when he looked out the bedroom window in the morning, face lax and his fingers stretched out as if to catch the sun light. The way he’d, then, say something uncharacteristically, completely un-sarcastically blissful and turn to adjust Harold’s clothes…It was all so very familiar, but also very, very different than the way Harold was used to seeing John.

Sometimes in those moment he would start to ask, but when John turned to look at him, eyes so soft and so in love, Harold could only look back in awe. The barely formed question would die unspoken, but would linger in the space left behind after the moment passed. It got to a point that Harold was worried that if he asked about it at all, it’d break whatever this was and he’d never see it again. He could feel how important it was, even if he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ it was… It was weighing on them, always lingering just out of sight but neither of them openly addressing it.

Eventually, it got to the point that even Shaw was starting to crawl out of her skin.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” She said finally after witnessing a ridiculously uncoordinated goodbye kiss, “But you two have been pussyfooting around each other for weeks and it’s getting fucking _weird_.” When she didn’t get an immediate response she scowled, “If you two are having trouble in the sack or something-…”

“I think you know neither of us are lacking in that area, Shaw.” John cut her off, smile hard and eyes in the dangerous grey area between flirting and threatening.

Her lips snapped shut as Harold whipped around to stare at John. _That_ particular subject was one of the things they’d all (silently) agreed not to talk about unless Shaw brought it up – which she wouldn’t. Yeah, she slept with them sometimes, because hey, she may not do well with emotions, but she wasn’t asexual, and she could – begrudgingly – admit she could trust them. When she approached them, she offered few words and got few in return – she asked with her body and got answers in kind. It didn’t need to be discussed more than that.

There was clearly something going on here, some line she had been about to cross and now wasn’t the time to address it – not in the middle of working a number, anyway. She sneered at him, allowing herself to be riled up. “I don’t know, John, last time wasn’t your best. Getting old on me?”

John’s smile relaxed and he looked at her evenly, “I’m sure I could change your mind about that. Are you free tonight?”

“Not that I’m opposed to you two flirting,” Harold spoke up impatiently, though there was an amused gleam in his eyes, “But I do believe we have a job to do.”

John and Shaw stared at each other as they shouldered their bags, only breaking when Shaw walked over to plant a kiss on Harold on her way out the door, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Harold cocked an eyebrow at her, but only shook his head with a smile when she turned to wink at John. He turned to the man, “I suppose I should expect you a little late to-…” He stopped when John cupped his cheek.

John kissed him sweetly on the side of the nose, “Not _too_ late.” He joked and rubbed the older man’s shoulder as he walked past, “Leave a light on.”

Harold stared after him as he started for the door, “…Have fun.”

That was a moment, and left in its wake was a question Harold had no way to phrase.

He hummed, pushing it aside and going back to his computers.


	2. Chapter 2

The number was actually a bit more tedious than expected – the wife hired a hit man on the hit man her husband’s ex-lover hired for her but then her husband fell in love with the first hit man and the ex-lover hired new hit men for all three of them, what a world – and it took almost a week of careful planning to find and restrain everyone. But once all involved parties were in custody, Finch shut down the computers and started home for the first time since the previous Sunday.

It was a few hours later, after he’d settled down with his latest bedside read when he heard Bear skittering across the hall floor, woofing softly. He started to mark his page when the door creaked open, “You’ve been reading that for some time now, Finch.”

Harold smiled at John’s voice, “I’m almost finished with it,” He said before he looked up; his smile fell slightly, “…You look tired.” He observed cautiously.

John sighed as he stepped out of his pants, “I guess a bit. A week and a half of surveillance can do that to a guy.” He hesitated in pulling off his undershirt, long enough that Harold noticed and frowned.

He closed his book slowly, wondering if he could’ve missed John injuring himself. “Well, no harm in turning in early…” He went to pull his glasses off.

“No, no,” John said, laying out beside Harold languidly, “Go ahead and finish up, it won’t bother me…”

Harold just watched him for a moment, a little line of concern growing in his forehead, but John cut him off before he could even voice the question. “I’m okay.” He said, smiling up at him, but his eyes were different again.

The elder man hesitated for a moment, but eventually reached over and clicked off the lamp. He set the book down and then set his glasses atop the book. He reached out blindly for his lover and when John clasped his hand, he drew the man closer until his arm was draped over his lap and his forehead was pressed to Finch’s thigh.

“We have to talk about it,” He said softly into the semi-darkness, swearing he felt John’s eyelashes against his skin as the man shut his eyes, “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s here, and it appears to be something… of great importance.” He carded his fingers through John’s hair, “We’re going to have to address it.”

There was a beat of silence before John spoke up, his voice soft and uncertain, “…Harold?”

“Yes?”

John pressed his lips to Harold’s skin, “I love you.”

Harold’s hand stilled against John’s scalp and he looked down at him, “I love you, too, John, dearly.”

“All of me?” Came back softly.

“…If you’re referring to certain aspects of your past-.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, John, all of you. What is this about?” He frowned when John rolled away from him, onto his back.

“It’s about me.” He replied, staring up at the ceiling.

Harold turned slightly, as best he could, to face him better, “What about you?”

John’s head angled at him, but his eyes were not quite on his lover yet, “…Could you love more of me?”

Harold blinked, “I don’t understand the question.”

“If there was more than just this me, more than the John you knew…” He laid his arms across his face, “Could you love that me, too?”

The elder man’s brow furrowed, “I take it you aren’t referring to aliases.”

He coughed out a laugh, “…I’m not crazy, Finch.”

“That wasn’t at all what I was thinking.” Harold verbally shrugged.

“Then what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I don’t quite understand and I’d like to know more.” He responded honestly.

John appeared to be holding his breath before he shifted, pressing his arms tighter against his face as he spoke, “If I… Could you still love me if I were…?”

“John, look at me. _Look at me_ ,” Harold pulled gently at John’s arm until the man conceded and rolled so he could meet his gaze. Harold held him gently by the face, frowning at the clearly forced calm he saw in John’s eyes, “There is _nothing_ you’re going to tell me that will undo this relationship, please believe me. We have gotten too far together to even consider giving up. I love you and I intend to _keep_ you.”

John blinked up at him, for a moment not saying anything, not _breathing_ as he searched Harold’s face. After a moment he tucked his lips into his mouth and Harold felt fear shoot through him at the shine that was suddenly in the man’s eyes, “What is it, John?” He asked softly.

Said man opened his mouth to speak, but then bowed his head suddenly with a watery laugh. He swallowed before looking back up at his lover, “…She’s a woman.” He choked out softly, eyes swimming with trepidation.

Harold’s lips moved as if to ask “who?” but quickly drew back. He blinked, surprised, then asked slowly, “The other you?”

The other nodded, dropping his gaze again, “She’s still _me_ , just…”

“Two sides of the same coin?” Harold offered, stroking the side of his face comfortingly.

He nodded and swallowed thickly, “…I thought it would kill her… when I enlisted. I thought I would have to be just ‘John’, to destroy all of the soft side of myself and I’d be done with feeling like this but… I could never quite cut her out… And then I realized, it probably would have been very bad if I had succeeded.

“She _is_ me, Harold.” John looked back up at his lover and felt like he could breathe a little easier at the interest and understanding in Harold’s eyes. “She’s me just as much as ‘John’ is me. If I lost her… I wouldn’t even be myself anymore, I’d be exactly what the CIA tried to make me and… _John_ me can be things she can’t and _she_ can be things John can’t, because…” His voice tapered and Harold waited patiently for him to continue, “I’ve let a lot of bad things happen to me. I’ve let people break off pieces of John, but… nobody ever had the chance to get at her. _She’s_ the part of me that hasn’t been touched, the part of me that still believes…” He smiled a little, “That jogging and petting a dog can be happiness enough.”

Harold hummed with a soft smile, “She’s allowed to be a… _softer_ you because he’s there to protect her?”

John nodded again, before pulling himself up to press his face against Harold’s shoulder, “But… I feel safe here. With you.” He let his arms settle carefully around Harold’s waist, smiling as the man held him too, “I feel at home with you.” He whispered, his voice listing into something gentler.

“I’m glad.” Harold replied, letting his head rest against his lover’s, “Because I’d very much like to meet you.”

“You have,” Was the reply, and Harold knew it wasn’t _John_ John in that moment, “You have met me, Harold. You started to love me even when you didn’t know who I was.”

He wouldn’t argue there. Whatever gender presentation they might adhere to in a given time they were, and always would be, inherently _John_. They were still the person he’d let get close enough to fall in love with, “Well, since we know each other so well, may I have your name? If it’s not John?”

“No, no, John is fine…” She hesitated.

Harold tilted his head down, “But?”

There was a small pause before she replied, “I like the name Johanna.”

“Johanna,” Harold breathed in awe, stroking his fingers lightly across her back, “Alright, then. It’s very good to formally meet you. I do hope you’ll come around as freely as you like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions/Comments/Concerns/Critiques always welcome!  
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: just a spelling correction!

“Good morning, Finch.”

Harold smiled when John came into the main room, setting a fresh cup of tea beside his hand as he leaned to kiss the top of his head, “Mr. Reese.” He replied pleasantly, “You were resting so comfortably, since we didn’t have a number, I decided not to wake you. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” John smiled, sitting on the couch across from the desk with his coffee, petting Bear as the dog walked up, “What are you up to so early if we don’t have a number?”

“Altering some code on a security system for one of my companies.” The older man replied easily, “It’s not a big project, but there’s no need to put off on-…”

“Harold,” John interrupted looking at him with a deeply affectionate smile that made the man flush lightly, “Are you doing research?”

“…Maybe just a bit.” He responded quietly, pushing his keyboard away, “But bearing in mind I’d take your word as law more than anything else I could find…”

John hummed, smiling into his mug, “Thank you.”

Harold smiled back, “Of course.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, during which John got up to get a donut and Finch fed Bear. John was seated and patiently cleaning his guns before he spoke again.

“I get… stuck sometimes.” He said softly, mostly to his lap as he focused on the gun in his hands.

Harold looked up from, this time, genuinely coding to regard him carefully, “In what manner?”

“Even though most of the time I have to be John… I’m always aware that I’m a woman, too, you know?” He turned to look at Finch for a moment before, looking down at the now assembled gun. “I can be just a guy or be both and still do my job just fine, but… But sometimes, especially off the clock… I feel like I’m just _a woman_ , just that _me_ and as of late…”

She put the weapon down wiping her hands down her legs, “As of late, I’ve tried not to shy from it. To not fight it and just feel it with everything I have, because I allow myself to now. But other days I… I look down and I feel like I’m…” She motioned absently, “I think this can’t be _me_. This isn’t how I should _look_.”

Harold’s eyebrow quirked, “Do you mean your…?” He motioned at Johanna’s crotch.

“No, I don’t, I…” She hesitated a moment, then shrugged with a sheepish smile, “I’m a woman with a penis and broad shoulders, that’s not the issue… It’s just… something I thought you should know.” She looked down at herself again, “Sometimes I just show up, but sometimes I’m stuck… It gets a little frustrating.”

The man hummed, watching her curiously for a moment before he spoke again, “…Johanna?”

“Yes, Harold?”

“Do you have any… _things_?” He asked hesitantly, and when she just arched an eyebrow at him, quickly adding, “Clothes, specifically. Perhaps makeup and jewelry, things of that nature…” He cleaned his glasses absently as he stood and approached her, “Just for you, I mean, not for you and John to share?”

Harold watched her blink up at him, the corners of her lips flicking downward, “…I never had the chance.” She admitted softly.

He touched her face gently, “You do now, yes?”

She leaned into his palm, reaching up to cover his hand with hers, “Would you help me?”

“Of course,” He replied instantly, bowing to kiss her head, “If ever you’d like me to.”

 

*

 

John didn’t want to jump straight into building Johanna’s wardrobe that day, or even that week, but they felt a bit soothed for having told Harold as much as they did. Like they were finally letting their _her_ self grow after years of cutting it down to the root. Their lover was clearly thinking about it frequently, maybe processing or maybe just considering, but not with an air of concern or frenzy that usually was about him when he was taxed by something. He wasn’t worried or unnerved, just thinking; and John was inclined to let him do so.

It was just him carrying on, with another thought in the back of his mind. John would catch him zoned out with the most intrigued look on his face and they would smile at him as the attention snapped back to them. They knew him well, and knew he’d been thinking about them, but this was one of those few instances that they couldn’t quite latch on to whatever wavelength Harold was on. They didn’t know what he was wondering about or if they even really wanted to yet, so they just let it rest.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold called out one day when John and Bear were on their way out for a run.

He turned back to see his lover steadily typing away at the computer, “Yeah, Finch?”

The man pointed vaguely over his shoulder at a nearly empty bookshelf, “On your way out, could you put that bag away somewhere, please?”

“…Okay?” John replied, eyebrow quirking as he looked over to the electric green, zip-up pencil bag confusedly. Harold wouldn’t normally ask him for housekeeping tasks that weren’t about keeping his guns off the tables (he did them without being asked), but then again Harold wouldn’t normally own something so… _gaudy._ There had to be something else going on here. “Is it armed?” He joked as he approached.

Harold cut him an exasperated look, “Yes, clearly.”

He picked it up, tilting it gently and trying to identify the plastic-on-plastic sound it made, “Can I look inside?”

“If you’d like.” Harold said, sounding so nonchalant that John knew it was a front.

He unzipped the pouch slowly, feeling a curious tingle work its way over him when he realized what he was looking at. Inside the little pouch was a tube of mascara, an eyeliner pen, a tube of shimmering cotton candy-pink lip gloss, red lipstick, a small eye shadow palette, and a small collection of brushes. John felt a little short of breath when he pulled out the little palette.

It only had six colors, three of them just skin tones, but his hand still shook slightly as he looked down at them. He swallowed, turning to look at Harold, but not finding the words to say.

“It’s nothing much.” The elder man wrung his hands as he stood, “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but… I thought you might like them.” He tugged at his jacket, “If that assumption was inappropriate, I apo-…”

He cut off when John’s lips suddenly pressed to his, holding lightly as the man gripped his sleeve. “It’s fine,” John assured against Harold’s lips, kissing him again, “It’s fine, it’s _good,_ I _… Thank you_.”

“Oh. Oh, alright, John,” Harold muttered back when the taller man wrapped his arms around him tightly. He closed his arms around his lover’s waist, muttering into his shoulder, “It was no trouble at all, I’m glad you like them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Johanna didn’t start wearing the make up immediately, just allowing herself to revel in the fact that she had it and it was _hers_. Sometimes she would stand in the bathroom and lay it all out, as carefully as John laid out disassembled guns across the coffee table. Sometimes she would watch women on the street – from the back of John’s eyes and insides of his suits – and wonder how she would get her makeup to ever look that beautiful. She believed she could, _would_ , if for no more reason than she refused to start stepping on herself when she’d only just been allowed to freely exist.

When she did start, she started small – the pink lip-gloss.

She was standing halfway in the closet having just hung up John’s suit, wearing a button down, open to her muscle shirt, and briefs when she saw the little makeup bag on the top shelf. She just stared at it for a moment, before actually taking it down. For all the times she’d opened it, she’d never actively put on any of the make-up, was only vaguely familiar with how _to_ for some of it. But…

She unzipped the bag, pulling out the tube of lip gloss and examining it. It couldn’t be too different from lip balm, she figured.

She twisted the top off the tube, the tamper proof seal having long since been removed. She smelled it, humming at the scent of several, unidentifiable but pleasantly sweet, fruits. She squished the little container, watching as a shimmering pink droplet appeared at the hole in the top. She watched herself in the mirror as she carefully smeared the gloss across her bottom lip before pressing her lips together.

It was a little stickier than regular lip balm, the smell a bit stronger now that it was actually on her face, but Johanna enjoyed the way the color of her lips suddenly popped out from the rest of her skin. She puckered her lips then pulled them back into a soft smile at the way the shimmer changed and shifted. Dabbing a finger at the corners of her mouth (as she’d often seen other women do and now understood why when she wiped away the spare gloss), she capped the tube and headed out of the bathroom.

Harold heard her coming down the hall and called out.

“Just so you know, John, I _finally_ took the liberty of ordering from that takeout place you been _so very_ insistent upon ea- oh,” Finch stopped when she entered the kitchen, blinking as he turned to face her completely, “Hello, Johanna.” He amended.

“Harold,” She replied mildly, stepping around Bear as she kissed her lover gently. Her chest fluttered happily when she noticed the shimmer she’d left behind on his lips, “I’m detecting a hint of exasperation…”

He hummed at her, crinkling his nose, “You sound the same way when I talk about the teas I want to try.”

“What?” She smiled teasingly as she sat beside him, “I love when you talk about your fancy leaf water.” When he just gaped at her, mildly appalled (that she would… _boil down_ the meaning of tea like that!), she just laughed and kissed his temple.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor sex scene, but nothing explicit!

Shaw knew that Finch, for all his faults, was not, wouldn’t be, probably never _was_ the cheating type. Alongside this certainty, she knew that when John let himself love someone, he did so wholly and possessively. The fact that John even let _her_ share Finch with him was a stark _miracle_ in and of itself. Though, she had the distinct feeling – not to toot her own horn or imply that she, you know, _appreciated_ it – that she was a special case. She couldn’t imagine anyone else putting their hands on their old man and walking away in one piece. Or walking ever again for that matter. Hell, if John didn’t get to them first, Shaw would be out for blood her own damn self.

But that being said, she couldn’t shake the memory of the pink shimmering lip-gloss that had been smudged on Finch’s neck or the feeling of shock (and surprisingly enough, jealousy?) that came with it. More than that, she couldn’t shake the memory of John noting it with an amused smirk and just wiping it away chuckling at Finch’s sudden blush, “ _Very discreet, Finch._ ”

_That_ was not the appropriate reaction.

There should’ve been stony silence or demands to know _who_ and when and _why_ or a storm off or a shut down or… Not an honest _smile_.

She was missing some part of this picture.

“So it’s an open relationship?” Shaw panted one night, speaking with her mouth against John’s shoulder.

The breathy laugh she got in response sent a streak of annoyance through her that dimmed when John snapped his hips forward, “Shaw…” He said patronizingly, shrugging the shoulder presently in her mouth when she bit down, “I’d expected more from you.”

“Fuck you,” She ground out, legs clenching around his waist. It irritated her to admit it irritated her that she’d been left out of this. Yeah, they had a relationship of their own, just like Finch and Shaw had something of their own, but… This was something different. This was a big deal and she didn’t know what it was. She didn’t even know how to ask about it.

“Whatever,” She grunted out after he gave her a bruising kiss, leaving a raw taste on her lips, “It’s not gonna be my funeral…” She groaned in annoyance when he stopped moving against her, “ _What?_ ”

He pulled up slightly to stare down at her, sheened with sweat and panting slightly, but without that familiar look that promised she’d be sore when they were done. There was a different kind of intimacy behind his eyes when he said, “Shaw, I get it.”

“Get _what_?” She snapped, eyebrow twitching.

He looked her dead in the eyes, “We’re not leaving you.”

He grunted softly when she braced and flipped them so he landed on his back, her palm in the middle of his chest and one arm braced against his throat, “Don’t you fucking dare!”

He relaxed under her hand, body going slack with his arms out to the sides. Something in his eyes made her chest clench; this wasn’t him. This wasn’t him at all, but clearly it _was._

“Sameen,” Goose flesh sprang up on her arms, not just because he called her _that name,_ but because his voice was all fucked up. And not in the throat fucked raw or I’ve been screaming kind of way, it just wasn’t… John. She stared down at him, met his gaze and felt like she was being shown something personal. She couldn’t breathe for a moment as his hand slid up her side so very gentle and _wrong_ but _not_ and what the _fuck was going on here?_

“I think you could figure out what this was all about if you thought about it…”

But something about this unnerved her. It was raw and open and maybe John saw it in her face because he just smirked and threw her onto her stomach, pressing into her so suddenly she saw stars, “But you don’t need to think about it right now.”

She could’ve thrown him off, but it might’ve cost him a broken nose and she was not so inclined once he began to move again. Even when he leaned over her back, “But I mean it, Shaw. This isn’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

She fought down the urge to snap at him, fought down the relief threatening to take hold in her gut, instead growling something unintelligible and rolling her hips back to meet his.


	6. Chapter 6

Johanna liked when Harold did her make up.

She’d learned by herself first, after feeling brave enough to move on up (or at least take _excursions_ ) from the lip-gloss. She spent a bit of time on various websites and videos learning how to properly make up her face, and periodically buying other kinds of makeup, until she could get everything to look the way she wanted it. Contoured and colored in the right places to make her face look alight and softer. She liked it. The way it felt when she did it and how she looked afterwards. It made her feel like an artist in a completely different way than working a mark did. She also enjoyed the fascination on Harold’s face whenever he saw her made up.

After a while it occurred to her that Harold was always a little awed by her (and him, as it were, he sometimes looked at them like that even _en homme_ ) but this was different. The times she wore make up, his eyes got stuck to colors and followed curves and would flick occasionally from looking her _in_ the eye to looking _at_ her eye.

So one evening she asked him, “Harold, would you like to watch me?”

He would.

He sat quietly on the toilet seat, only intermittently asking what something was or did, but mostly just watching, intrigued. After a several more instances of the same thing, and after Johanna’s assurance that Harold _speaking_ to her would _not_ mess up her concentration so much as to not be welcome, she finally asked if he’d like to try putting it on for her.

“You know,” She shrugged, “In case I injure my hand or something…”

Harold hesitated, eyes shifting from her face to his hands, “I don’t think I’m _quite_ at your particular skill level, Ms. Johanna…”

Johanna leaned her chin in her hand, smiling warmly, “It washes off, Harold. Besides,” She tapped the back of his hand with a brush, “I think you’d enjoy it, right?”

He took the brush from her frowning, “Well… Well yes, but…” He paused when she held some pressed powder out to him.

“I’ll even talk you through it,” She offered, her voice just north of wheedling, “Live a little, Harold.”

The man just rolled his eyes, “I live plenty,” He said looking at the brush with interest, “But if you insist…” When he received a look that said she indeed did insist, he stood motioning for her to take his seat atop the toilet, “This is ridiculous.”

“Then I thank you for indulging me,” She teased, sitting down and turning her face up to him, “Start with the concealer…”

She walked him through it slowly, her eyes closed and smiling lightly. He asked her for clarification more than once and she readily obliged, even if she was sure it was just his nerves. The contours felt like they were in the right spots, her lipstick had gone on smoothly and wasn’t smudged; he was doing fine… until the eyeliner.

He made a startled little noise when he ended the line at the corner of her eye. When he pulled his hand away, she blinked up at him, “Crooked?” She tried not to laugh at the horrified look on his face.

“Oh dear, um,” He reached for some toilet paper, “I just went over the edge of your eye a bit, hold on, just let me…”

She couldn’t quite hold back her smile, “Then just make it a wing, Harold.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Make it look intentional,” She continued, “Darken it and make it look sharp. Bring it down to the very corner of my eye,” She indicated with her pinky.

He looked uncertain, but did as he was told, tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth with concentration, before moving to repeat with the other eye. She opened her eyes when he finished, watching amusedly as he glanced between her eyes, “Good?”

He scoffed, “You’ll have to answer that yourself, I’m afraid.” His lips quirked off to the side, “Do you want eye shadow?”

“Just a little along the liner and in the inside corner,” She replied, turning to the counter, “The blue, if you would. That’s the shadow brush over there…”

As Harold finished up with the eye shadow, he hesitantly – “Wouldn’t you rather _close_ your eye?” – applied some mascara before sitting on the edge of the tub with a sigh. Johanna looked down at him pleasantly, “Done?”

He hummed, “Yes, but I’m not sure you should pay me for it…” His lips quirked towards a smile when she brushed her fingertips against his cheek as she stood.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” She stood in front of the mirror and blinked at her reflection. It was by no means bad; he’d done just about as well as she had when she’d first tried (at least the concealer and contours were even). However, admittedly, her eyes made her want to laugh a little. The wings on her eyeliner favored shaky arrowheads more than wings, and the eye shadow was… strikingly unblended.

She pressed her lips together to smother a smile, but clearly wasn’t as successful as she thought.

“Well,” He sniffed with a pout, blushing a little, “I _did_ warn you.”

The laugh bubble over and she wrapped her arms around his waist, “I think it was rather good for a first try…” When he just hummed in response, she kissed his temple, “And either way, I enjoyed it.”

“You did?” He startled, and when she hummed an affirmative, “Oh. Well… Well, that’s good. I enjoyed it as well.”

It took a while after that, a few more instances of Harold learning the same things Johanna had, but eventually it got to the point where it was as simple and natural as offering the make-up bag to Harold. Even if she liked it when her lover did her makeup, Johanna liked doing it herself the vast majority of the time, so the instances when she asked for him to do it. Well.

How could Harold say no?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slight mention of BDSM/Aftercare themes, but again, nothing too explicit. Hope you enjoy!

Shaw tried to wheedle an answer out of Harold as well.

She was still breathing hard as he unwound the ropes from her arms, gently rubbing the depressions in her skin when she’d realized she hadn’t really spoken to him about… _it_. Maybe it was just something about not wanting the answers she knew Finch would have (that John possibly wouldn’t) that had made her hesitate this long, but she decided today wasn’t the day she was going to start psychoanalyzing herself more than necessary. She just hadn’t asked _yet_ … She was getting around to it.

She sighed when he slowly lowered one of her arms, massaging her shoulder as he did. This part was so familiar of him; gentle hands rarely moving without purpose.

She’d tried to avoid outright asking for things (she was in a situation where she couldn’t just demand as per usual). She didn’t like talking about their relationship, so she got things by just moving, _insinuating_ if she had to, but never just asking. She didn’t even like admitting how much it’d taken out of her to ask Harold to hurt her, how much she had to stomp down on feelings she wasn’t used to having while trying to convince him there wasn’t anything wrong with this. A lot of things wrong with her, sure, maybe, but not _this_. It didn’t have anything to do with this.

But once negotiated – because he _insisted_ , and then researched, and insisted some more – Harold did it the same way he did anything else: thoroughly, with finesse and dedication.

For not being too much of a sadist, he was a very creative man and she never found herself disappointed (once he realized she wasn’t going to shatter and stopped being so damn namby-pamby with the crop). She liked the burn he left in his wake on the occasions they did this and didn’t pitch too much of a fit at the way he tried to sooth some of it away afterwards.

She made an appreciative noise when he slowly helped her up off her knees, “Color?”

“Green, Finch,” Shaw replied drowsily, “For the fifth-…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” He interrupted, cupping her face and looking in her eyes, “You’re not going to break so easily.” She didn’t get the chance to reply when he held a bottle of PowerAde to her lips. She would take it from him – for _fucks_ sake, she could drink by herself – but she knew he got more out of this, out of her trusting him with this kind of intimacy, than he let on.

She didn’t really need this part of it all, or at least she didn’t feel like she did, but she was willing – more than willing, really – to indulge Finch in this kindness he was so accustomed to giving. She let him check her over thoroughly, before he tugged her over to the couch. For a moment they sat quietly, Harold occasionally offering Shaw sips of her drink and bites of a small sandwich until she finally pushed it away. She leaned carefully over his lap as directed, pressing her face to his chest as he held her, stroking her hair.

The quiet quickly went from placid to stifling and as if he felt her unrest, he called out to her, but she just shifted up, resting her forehead against the side of his neck, lightly. He rubbed at the welts along her back, waiting patiently for her to speak. She sighed against him before she finally decided to just wing it, “So John’s with her, too, huh?” She asked and mentally patted herself on the back for not sounding bitter.

Harold twisted slightly in an attempt to look down at her, but she wouldn’t move her face from the side of his neck, “…With whom?”

“Your…” She hesitated. She’d never tried to put a name to what she was to him, or to John for that matter. It was more than coworkers, obviously, more than friends even, (that much wasn’t murky anymore), but Shaw wasn’t sure what exactly that left. Girlfriend sounded fucking ridiculous, lover felt romanticized, sub was not said outside a scene… She’d never had a reason to call this anything, because she didn’t need the words, so she had to chew on it for a while before she could spit out, “Your other partner.” She touched at the spot on his neck that had shone pink before, “The chick with the shiny lips.”

There was a startled pause before Harold’s gentle laugh started up only to cut off sharply when Shaw’s teeth caught his ear, “Ms. Shaw, please- _ah_.” She bit down until he grabbed her by the hair, “That’s quite enough of that.”

“You know what? Whatever!” She started to get up, because – _fuck_ – the rare times she actually outright asks them honest questions, she gets laughed at and she’s done with this. Fuck being confused, it wasn’t important anyway, she was obviously just an accessory to their relation-…

Finch didn’t let go of her hair – and while she was angry, she was not angry enough to hurt him, not the way she had been trained to get someone out of her hair anyway. She grabbed his wrist in warning, “Let go of me, Finch, I-…”

“Sameen.” He interrupted, his voice so gentle and troubled, she broke off. It was in complete contrast to the way he twisted her hair, making her choke on a grunt as he forced her to look up at him.

She pressed her lips together as he took his other hand and cupped her by the face, “There is no other partner. You and John are my only lovers, I assure you.” His mouth quirked to one side and he said fondly, “You two are more than enough to handle on your own, don’t you think?”

“…Yeah,” She agreed readily enough, but it sounded more like a question than anything. If there wasn’t another partner, then whoever had kissed Harold had done so without consulting him which _really_ irritated her because it bothered him enough that he had _hid_ -…

“Please don’t work yourself up,” He interrupted her train of thought, smoothing out the crease in her forehead. She crinkled her nose a little when he pressed a kiss between her eyebrows, but stilled when he whispered against her skin, “Sameen, I can’t explain everything, mostly because it’s not for me to explain, so I have to ask you to trust me.” He pulled back to look her in the eyes, “ _Nothing_ is wrong. Nobody new is coming into our relationship, and most certainly, no one is leaving. There is nothing wrong.”

“But there _is_ something going on.” She responded and it wasn’t a question.

Shaw watched him evenly as he pushed some hair back behind her ear, “Nothing negative, I assure you.”

She pushed up onto her knees so she could look him directly in the face and he looked back easily. He wasn’t lying to her, that much she knew. He may evade direct answers on occasion, but she and John were one of the very few people (possibly the only two left alive) who were granted the special privilege of not being told outright lies. It seems that much, at least, hadn’t changed.

But something _had_ changed and maybe part of it was her; because while she knew if she pushed the right way and asked the right non-questions, she could – probably – get enough information to piece together what had happened, but she honestly did not want to do anything that underhanded, not to Finch, not after he’d entered the zone of trusting her (whether or not that was stupid, aside). Part of her wanted to withhold that same from him; people can’t break things you don’t let them touch, but…

Finch ran his hand through her hair, waiting for her response, and she closed her eyes. A bigger part of her, frighteningly so, just wanted this _one fucking thing_ in her life to work out right. She was already too close to this, relied on this part of her life (the part that revolved around the numbers and John and Harold and their whole haphazard relationship) too much to jeopardize it.

She sighed and bent to rest her head on his knees, amiably letting him continue to pet her hair, “Yeah, Finch, ok.”

…But seriously, though, what the _fuck_ was going on here?


	8. Chapter 8

John found that he actually quite enjoyed shopping for Johanna.

They* hadn’t ventured into actually buying clothes, didn’t figure they’d find anything that would fit in most stores anyway, but they could go into department stores in their free time and grab little things like headbands or scarves and pieces of jewelry, usually under the guise of the annoyed husband who’d lost his wife’s such-and-such thing “it looks like this, kind of, but hers was… teal? Teal is sort of light blue, right? Do you have gold, too? Is that what ladies are wearing these days, I never have a clue, what about clip-ons?”

Harold had mentioned he didn’t really think they should feel bad about purchasing more things than they normally would, they’d missed out on an entire lifetime of building a wardrobe, but John still decided to take it slow. They knew they would need John’s clothes more than Johanna’s, so buying things for her felt more like a comfort thing than a necessity. Something they planned to do, very much wanted to do, just… slowly. They were still getting into the mindset that this was really happening, and really safe, and they were really, _really_ happy with it. They could feel it getting to that point, but they thought all of a sudden going to buy a closet full of clothes might overload them a little.

That didn’t mean, however, that Johanna wasn’t pleased as punch to sit down to dinner, not only wearing light makeup, but with a pair of clip-on chandeliers and a matching headband.

A radio drama that neither of them were really paying attention played softly in the background as they quietly ate their food. Johanna allowed the stillness for a spell, silently twirling the pasta around her fork, until Harold unnecessarily dabbed at his mouth with his napkin for the seventh time. She sighed, setting her fork down against her plate and resting her chin in her hand. When he looked up at her in question she finally spoke, “So Shaw finally asked you about it.”

Harold flushed slightly and looked down at his plate with a sigh, “Yes, she did.”

She decided not to get into whether or not he’d intended to bring this up or if he was literally just waiting for her to read it off him. She figured he just wasn’t sure how to broach the subject without sounding uncomfortable. To be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure how to broach the subject either.

“What did you tell her?” She asked, taking a sip of her wine, mostly to give her hands something to do. She wasn’t nervous, exactly. Harold was a careful man; when he was trusted with something he took very good care of it. When he was trusted with _someone_ , he took even better care of them. She wasn’t afraid of what he’d told Shaw. She was, however, a little uncertain about the conversation it would lead to…

“I told her that it wasn’t my place to tell her anything, but to trust me that it was nothing undesirable,” Harold answered, watching her fretfully, “We let it rest with that. I wasn’t sure what more you would’ve wanted me to say.”

Johanna nodded, offering up a gentle smile, “That was good.” She replied. That was very good.

She wouldn’t lie; she was just as possessive as her male identity when it came to the people important to her. She’d rarely gotten the chance to show it until this point, but the fierce caretaker, protector tendencies within her were also in John; they never felt more in sync with themself as a whole than when they were looking after someone they cared for. But still, as in love with Harold as they were, it hadn’t taken much thought for them to consider Shaw a part of this little clan of lovers.

It was a little hard to explain exactly how that line got crossed; they don’t remember exactly why they’d been standing so close to Shaw or when they’d noticed the pause in Harold’s breathing or how Shaw’s hand wound up where it did, but it happened. And then it happened again. And then Harold stopped looking nervous when Shaw sauntered over to him, John watching intensely from across the room; Shaw stopped looking incendiary when they kissed her without a sexual edge, just because they could, and John…

John finally felt like he had everything he cared about – yes, Shaw was in that category, having somehow slipped in a forgotten back door around any bitterness he might’ve harbored initially – tucked safely under both of his arms, where he could keep an eye on them. There was a peculiar kind of grounded feeling that came with that; more so than in any other place in his life, he felt like he could stay where he was without causing any collateral damage. Like he could blink without everything crumbling in the meanwhile.

But hearing that Shaw – who was as damaged as the rest of them – was in the same place of being able to trust that Finch was past lying to them and that her place in this relationship wasn’t something she’d look up and find she’d lost, eased a tension Johanna had not been aware was even there. If Shaw was willing to trust Finch that much, she _wanted_ this that much, wanted _them_ that much.

Johanna wanted it that much as well.

She’d started to pick at her food again when she next spoke up, “I… I don’t think I would mind, though.”

Harold glanced up at her, “Mind what?”

She made a vague gesture at herself, “Shaw knowing about me.”

“You wouldn’t?” Her lover replied, head tilted intentionally, in a way that he probably meant to demonstrate mild surprise, but Johanna read right through as faint hope. He wanted it, too.

She half shrugged, giving him a nervous sort of smile, “I don’t know if she would treat me the same after, but I don’t believe she would treat me badly. It’s just…” She forked another piece of pasta, finally settling on, “weird, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t say weird,” Harold disagreed, brow dipping slightly, “Weird has a negative connotation this situation doesn’t deserve. It’s just a bit difficult for some people to understand…”

“Was it hard for you?” Johanna asked, running her fingers across the back of his free hand.

“…In a sense,” Harold confessed after a moment of hesitation, twisting his hand so he could loosely intertwine their fingers, “I had to constantly remind myself that you and John are separate presentations of _one_ identity, one individual.” He sipped his wine, “But it was important, a priority, so I made sure to do so.”

Johanna flushed happily, smiling as she whispered, “You’re a lovely man, Harold Finch.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He responded with a kind smile, “And you are a lovely woman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When not talking specifically about John or Johanna, I try to use neutral pronouns to refer to the both of them. If that’s confusing or you’ve normally seen something different, drop me a line?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the updates are taking so long! This is just a short chapter, but I'll try to post the next few a little more quickly!

John woke up as Johanna this morning, something that happened fairly regularly, but that she never really got the chance to dwell in. It used to be disappointing, to wake up like this only to have to jerk herself back into a male mindset before she even reached the front door, but today was a little different. After rolling over and tapping her phone to check if the world needed John to save it today – it appeared it didn’t – she smiled, and headed for the bathroom.

She’d gotten a package to one of John’s alias’ properties just a few days ago that she’d been simmering with nervous excitement about since days before that. One of the many perks of living in a technological age, in spite of many valid drawbacks they were all too well aware of, was online shopping. Thousands of stores selling thousands of things and plenty of them more than willing to not label their boxes.

So when she found a website – after much waffling on whether or not she was ready to look – that sold panties and bras for men, she was nearly fidgeting with excitement. She thought some part of her should’ve wanted to shy away from the idea that this site was “for men”; it seemed like a lot of fetishists made their way here, but before she could even formulate a real sense of distaste, a thought interrupted her. Most of the men who used these sites, in all honestly, probably had the same goal in mind that she did: they just wanted to feel _pretty_.

And looking at all the different colors and shapes and patterns… she thought this was a way she could. And so – after carefully measuring as instructed – she ordered a few pairs of normal panty-bra sets and, after a bit of reading and consideration, a pair of gaffs, as well. She’d tried not to buzz around during the days waiting for them to arrive, but now that they were here…

She breezed out of the bathroom, freshly showered, shaved, and wrapped in a soft towel, and headed straight for the closet. She pulled out the box and sat it on the bed to carefully cut off the packing tape. Once she had pulled them all out and laid them in pairs on the bed, she bowed her head with an embarrassed laugh. She had the giddy thought that she’d been in her teens – or rather _John_ had been in his teens – the last time she’d gotten flustered over a pair of panties. But here she was, just short of giggling at the sight of them spread out on her sheets.

She ran her hand over the fabrics; before finally deciding on the beige silk, black lace hipsters and bra combo.

The panties were a little snug, but she liked the way it held her in place and the smooth feel of the silk against her skin. She clasped the bra, sliding it up over her chest and adjusting it. She shrugged her shoulders under the straps, gently running a finger across the gore. This wasn’t one of the ones with a significant amount of padding, though it did have slots for inserts. She had bought a push up as well (partly to give herself, what she saw as the _illusion_ at the moment, that one day she might venture out somewhere _en femme_ ), but today she didn’t feel she needed it.

When she finally turned to look at herself in the mirror, for a spell she couldn’t even connect the thoughts to understand what the feeling that stole her voice was. Her breath was short and, much to her wonder, her eyes stung. She touched herself reverently, like if she pressed too hard the fabric would brush away in her hands. She realized that she’d used the same amount of reverence the first time she’d held Harold’s face in her hands and kissed him. Like this was something precious and if she moved too suddenly it’d slip away forever. The word “precious” stuck in her head, pushing away any embarrassment she might’ve felt when a tear spilled hot down her cheek as she clasped a shivering hand over her mouth.

She didn’t have any jewelry or make up on, hadn’t even put on any lip-gloss. She was just another woman standing in her underwear in her bedroom, like a million other ladies did every day.

And still, her heart pounded in her chest and she choked a soft noise between a laugh and a sob.

She truly felt something like beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several websites that sell panties “for men”, but I’m not listing any as I’ve only browsed. I’m not sure what individual experiences with ordering them would be like, this was purely based on word of mouth and supposition


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a sex (-ish) scene. Nothing horribly explicit, but didn’t want to startle you.

Harold enjoyed the familiar chaos that ensued whenever the three of them could “relax” together. He sat in the lounge chair off to the side of the bed, because sometimes the urge to watch overrode the urge to touch, looking on with interest as John and Shaw rolled into each other. He touched himself only absently, intrigued by the intensity – see: violence – with which they loved each other.

In all honesty, it seemed a bit like fighting, to him. A kind of intimacy he didn’t quite understand and couldn’t reciprocate in any similar fashion, but rarely allowed himself to be made envious of. It was a careful balance that allowed this relationship to work, and it would not do to get jealous of one another (especially when he was the only one likely to actually _speak up_ when something was wrong, ironically enough). And though Harold never considered himself much of a voyeur in spite of the jokes related to the Machine his lovers occasionally made, here he found himself time and time again, losing his breath as Shaw stifled an aborted shout into John’s shoulder.

He sighed contentedly afterwards, allowing his heart rate to come down before clucking distastefully at the mess on his hand.

“If you grab a rag,” John panted into Shaw’s breasts before raising his head to face him, “You’re more than welcome to join us in bed?”

Harold quirked his lips, “As much as I would love to, I believe ‘Harry Dove’ has an event this evening.” He pushed to his feet; he wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending the afternoon in a cheap pair of khakis surrounded by self-righteous businessmen who felt the need to pretend they knew how to work a grill once a month.

John smirked playfully, “Harry’s loss, then.”

“Your teasing is most unbecoming.” Harold replied with an arched eyebrow, turning towards the bathroom. He’d started to shower, then just turned to wash his hands when he realized that the company he was about to join had been golfing for the majority of the day and decided, objectionably, musk and cheap cologne would fit in more seamlessly.

He could hear the shrug in John’s voice when he called from the other room, “I assume I’ll pay for it later.”

“Can _I_ watch that?” Shaw added and Harold chuckled as he changed.

“I think he might enjoy that a bit more than is appropriate,” He responded picking up a face cloth before stepping back into the room. He sneered at the chuckles that started from the bed. He adjusted his polo self-consciously, dropping the rag on Shaw’s stomach, “It’s a persona!”

“Of course, Harry,” John replied with a smile, as Shaw snorted, wiping down, “You look more than good enough to eat barbeque with.”

Harold tsk’d but nevertheless, reached out to them. Shaw rose up first leaning across John’s stomach to kiss Harold warmly. The man smile against her lips, then turned to tweak John’s cheek before he kissed the man as well, “I’ll see you both shortly.”

Shaw hummed in response as she stretched out along John’s side, the man waving lazily over her head, “Have fun.”

They lay in a companionable silence for some time after that. John had some of Shaw’s hair in his fingers, twirling distractedly as the woman dozed beside him. He knew she must’ve been having a good day, sex aside, if she allowed that kind of affectionate interaction. He didn’t quite turn to look at her, but he felt the ease with which she laid against him, as much of a concession of trust and affection as words could be. Shaw was an inherent part of their pack now and if there was one thing John knew it was that having secrets between the three of them would, eventually, do damage. He knew she wasn’t a hateful person, at least not in any particularly malicious way, but he still wasn’t sure how she would take the “sometimes I’m a woman” speech. If she would take it seriously, and accept it, or think it was just some weird fetish or-…

John got distracted, looking down curiously when Shaw suddenly rolled to face him as she reached across his chest. He fought down a wince when she viciously twisted his nipple, “Ow?”

“What is it?” She barked in response.

He raised both eyebrows, “I didn’t say a word.”

“You’re thinking so loud you don’t have to. It’s keeping me up.”

John smiled at the ceiling; perceptiveness is attractive. Of course she knew, it wasn’t just an emotional thing. He was past the point of stalling, so that made this a whole lot like plotting, didn’t it? He thought about the way he’d told Harold, how they’d been alone together in the darkness of his bedroom when the words came out, stumbling and afraid. He looked down at her and thought maybe he could find them again, that he could spin his tale, honest though shaking, in the beams of twilight slipping through the window.

But all the same, he didn’t want to delve into it right now. He was deep in ‘John’ and feeling ok here; he’d tell her soon, though. He promised himself and, silently, her, too. He would slide into Johanna and hold out her hands, asking Shaw to come to them. For the moment, he let that image pull him and he rolled over so he was half on top of her, smiling when she tensed as he stuck his nose in her neck, “What’s _with_ you?”

“You.” He muttered happily, mouthing at her throat.

She made a mildly annoyed sound, but didn’t push him off, “You’re so fucking _soft_.”

“…I just _came_ , Shaw, I’m not as young-.” He smiled when she smacked his shoulder, quieting when she let her arm rest against his back.

She scraped at his shoulder with her nails for a moment before speaking again. It was so quiet, if he hadn’t been laying directly against her chest, he might not even have heard it, “You told me you weren’t leaving…” She mumbled, leaving the ending hanging in a way that almost made it a question, but was a bit too proud, too wary to be asked outright.

He set his hand on her hip, thumb stroking gently, “I’m not.”

“Right,” She nodded against his head adding somewhat awkwardly, “Neither am I.”

John found this endearing in a way he couldn’t put into words, something he felt so deep down he wasn’t sure even he understood it. But it made his chest clench and he held her a little closer. He spoke softly, but his voice floated out happy and love-struck, “If I said something indulgent right now…”

“I’d head-butt you.” She shot instantly.

“Alright, take it easy,” He chuckled, pushing up onto his elbow to look down at her. That was all he did at first, watching her face and, behind the general barrier of annoyance, the unusually relaxed state of it. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he leaned down and kissed her with all the love he had for her, hoping and happy at the same time; he didn’t even think to poke fun at her when she shivered in his arms with the intensity of it.


	11. Chapter 11

Johanna always thought it was interesting to see Harold working on suits.

It seemed to be a cathartic hobby for him, to fix suits for John and himself and others that went out to a few loyal customers John had never inquired about. He always moved about them with this absent, easy kind of flow that, honestly, was a bit soothing to watch. She brushed her hand along her pantyhose to the hem of her silk dressing gown. She’d taken to wearing them around when she was feeling a little too feminine for John’s clothes and not quite bold enough to carry on in just her underwear. Femininity wasn’t something she’d had a lot of time to spare thoughts on previously, at least not as it related to herself, but now that she had the opportunity, well, why shouldn’t she explore it? She had bras and panties and makeup, she felt _good_ when she wore them, so why _not_ get some real clothes?

The flowing sleeve of her gown slid down her arm as she rested her chin in her palm, watching Harold float busily around a tweed three-piece.

“Harold,” She said, when he stood back, hands on his hips, admiring his own work.

“Yes, Johanna?” He said, pressing some wrinkles flat on the shoulders.

She swirled her finger on the table, “You know a bit about tailoring….”

Harold looked up at that, “I do, yes.” He pushed up his glasses, “Why?”

Even with the nervousness buzzing under her skin, she stood up and walked over to the man, who willingly took her hand when offered. She shifted for a moment, hesitating before looking up at him with slightly sheepish eyes, “I’d like to get a dress.” She confessed haltingly, swallowing when he blinked at her surprised, “Would you help measure me for it?”

The smile he gave her was so smitten, she felt a sharp jolt of affection for him underneath the relief. He ran a hand up her arm, squeezing comfortingly, “Of course, dear.”

She smiled and kissed him gently before letting him lead her over to the platform. She stepped up, laughing quietly to herself when he pulled a tape measure out of his breast pocket. She watched him start to roll his eyes, but stop abruptly when she let her robe fall off her shoulders, pooling around her feet.

“I was working on a _suit_ ,” He said after clearing his throat, “It’s not so odd to carry around a measuring tape…”

She hummed amiably, but said nothing as he started to measure her, jotting down the results in a small notepad. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand, “Do you have a place in mind that you’d like to purchase it?”

Johanna took his hand when offered and stepped down from the platform, “I found a store online that specializes in, well… ‘male-bodied’* shoppers,” She arched an eyebrow when his face pinched as if pained, “Why the face?”

The look he gave her was extremely perturbed and she found it endearing even though it confused her. He shook his head as she pulled her gown back on, “You know I couldn’t, in good faith, let you purchase clothes from some… some online-…” He waved his hand about, despaired.

“I know you like spoiling your subjects,” She cut in teasingly, wrapping her arms around him when he gave her a sour look, “But this time is a little different. I’d like to just try one, a simple one first. See if I like it enough to get more from an actual tailor…”

His lips were dangerously close to pouting territory, but she took his silence as an opportunity to kiss him gently until he relaxed. He hummed, clearly discontented but still accepting, “If you insist, my love.”

That evening, Johanna clicked through the sites with a nervous kind of fidgetiness with which she did a number of things these days, unsure of what she was actually looking for. She’d seen dresses on other women, looked at them longingly, but now she was getting a little frustrated with trying to find a pattern in the shapes, let alone the sizes. (She wasn’t sure what magical formula women were taught that let them know what the hell size they were actually looking for, but Johanna had not been informed…)

It took her a while, but she finally settled on a midnight blue pencil dress, with short sleeves and a wide collar embroidered with flowers. It wasn’t too expensive; if she decided she didn’t want to wear something like it again she wouldn’t be too hurt over it… But she did _really_ like the dress. She was still wrestling with the issue of not being able to _see_ herself in it, though. Hadn’t ever been able to imagine herself in any dresses, actually, not in the way she’d imagined herself in her bra and panties… There was something different about this.

But nevertheless, she pressed purchase and confirmed the order to one of John’s alias’s P.O. Boxes.

And then she waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many Trans* folk dislike the terms “fe/male bodied” and I just want to make it clear that it’s only used as a snub at how a lot of these types of sellers advertise themselves as being “for men”, even if they claim it’s because there’s a lack of a better term… If it is really an issue, even in this context, feel free to yell at me.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very long chapter. Warning for some slightly transphobic language. Nothing vulgar, just Johanna having a moment of doubt.

The end of another day saw the end of another number and found them wandering into their makeshift headquarters, tired and slightly bruised, but not really any worse for the wear.

They hadn’t been inside for more than two minutes when Shaw whistled to Bear, hooking on his leash and heading back towards the door, “I’m heading home.”

Finch startled, looking up from where he was powering down the computers, “So soon?”

Shaw smirked, “John’s been looking at you like he’s wanted to jump in your pants all day.”

John said nothing but Finch jumped about half a foot in the air and went bright red, having never quite gotten used to Shaw’s partiality for crass language, “Ms. Shaw! I-…” His voice caught in his throat when he caught the look on John’s face from the corner of his eyes. He turned to them, eyebrows raising slightly in concern. It wasn’t like it was such an odd thing, for John to suddenly have the desire to have Harold all to themself, just for this one night, but… Harold didn’t think that was what was happening here. The desire in their eyes was different, desperate in a way that was fidgety not sexual.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” Their partner laughed gently, walking over to kiss Finch, patting John’s chest on her way to the stairs, “Have fun, boys!”

They stayed quiet and at their respective positions until they heard the main door shut, and John’s posture slid into something less guarded, but just as nervous.

Harold blinked as he watched them physically resist the urge to bite their lip, “…Johanna?” He ventured gently and sighed at the sudden relief in her face, “I’m sure Ms. Shaw didn’t-…”

“It’s ok,” Johanna kissed him softly, “She doesn’t know yet, it’s ok, I-…” She stopped herself, taking a silent breath before looking at him hesitantly, “My dress is here.”

The concern bled out of Finch’s face, “Oh, lovely! Do you like it?”

Her mouth twitched, “I haven’t opened it yet.”

Harold took her hand, stroking gently with his thumb, “Nerves?” And when she just quirked her lips, “Would you like to try it now?”

“…I want to put everything on.” She answered, “I want to see how I would look if…”

She didn’t finish, wasn’t really sure where she’d even meant to take that, but he nodded nevertheless, “Should we go, then?”

Johanna offered her hand and led them down to the street. By the time they reached her front porch, Finch’s hand had started to ache from the press of his lover’s fingers. “I don’t have to go in with you,” He offered softly, “If you’d rather do this alone the first time?”

She took a breath before shaking her head vaguely, “It’s not so odd, is it?” She asked, bowing her head, “For a lady to get dolled up before dinner with her lover?”

Harold was briefly struck with the image of Johanna leaning over the kitchen table, smiling brightly with a string of pearls around her neck. He mentally pushed it into a side file for things to be considered later when he wanted to dote. For the moment, he brought his other hand up to brush her arm, “Not odd at all,” He agreed, smiling for her.

The smile he got back was still slightly anxious, but so incredibly grateful he decided not to push the issue. He trusted her to tell him what she wanted, even if it took her a while to get it all out.

And so he let himself be lead inside and given free reign of the house.

“I’ll be back,” Johanna kissed him, and Harold recognized it as the way John kissed him for strength before difficult numbers. He held onto her for a moment, before smiling as she turned to go into the bedroom. He called for dinner, their favorite Thai place, before turning on the radio and sitting to read quietly.

Johanna, for her part, was doing just fine.

She was doing fine as she stood in front of the mirror, in her black push-up bra and gaff panty set, and did her make-up. She found it soothing, even, the way her eyeliner smoothed on with learned finesse, the way her stockings stretched when she flexed her feet. It was all calming and familiar, so she was fine as she clipped on the new pair of darling little hoop earrings she’d gotten a few weeks ago. She was fine even as she slid a plain hairband into her hair and left the bathroom.

…She was a little less fine when she saw the dress laid out on the bed.

Even though she felt as though she was being completely honest with herself – she wanted this, she really, _really_ did – she couldn’t, to save her life, figure out where this hesitation was coming from. It _annoyed_ her, she was literally annoying herself.

There was a little flare of male John she felt in the moment she picked up the dress, wanting with a drudging willingness to just put the damn thing _on_ , but she made herself pause. Breathe. _What was wrong here?_

After a moment, during which she stood rubbing her thumb along the fabric and heard Harold answer the door for the delivery man, a thought occurred to her. She _still_ couldn’t see herself in this dress. It was beautiful and it was here and, _God_ , did she want to wear it, but… Her hands clenched as she looked down at herself. How could this be right? How could this ever be _hers_?

She shook her head, trying to talk herself _out_ of talking herself out of this. She’d made it to this point, after years of never imagining it would even exist. She wouldn’t start being her own enemy, not now.

Though it made her stomach flip nervously, Johanna stepped into the dress, heart pounding as she tugged the fabric up and slid her arms into the sleeves. Though the zipper was still down, she could tell it was going to be a little snug at her waist even though she didn’t have any prominent hips to speak of. She stood there for a moment, getting used to the feel of an unfamiliar shape around her body. The dress fell to just above her knees and though the sleeves were short, they rested nicely across the tops of her shoulders. She reached back and felt a little hoop and button at the back and slid it closed, leaving the zipper splayed open. Then she let her hands fall back down to her sides, forcing back nerves as she pointedly avoided looking at the mirror off to her left.

Johanna was just another woman getting dressed for dinner with her lover. She thought this repeatedly until she was calm enough that she didn’t think her voice would shake, “Harold?”

“Yes?” Harold called, from the kitchen it sounded like, then a moment later just outside the bedroom door, “Do you need some assistance, Ms. Reese?”

Johanna closed her eyes, feeling warmed. Calling her _Ms._ _Reese_ was such a Finch thing to do and it grounded her, oddly enough. Still, she turned her back to the door and the mirror beside it, “If you would?” The door clicked open and closed softly and she felt Harold step up behind her. She smiled at him over her shoulder, though she didn’t exactly look him in the eye, “Could you… zip up the back?”

She sighed when his hand fell warm and comforting on her side, “Of course, my dear.”

Harold tugged up the zipper slowly, smoothing his hands down Johanna’s back when he finished, “It’s a beautiful dress.” He commented, “I’d love to see it from the front?”

Johanna huffed half a laugh, “I would, too.” She said, her voice soft and she looked down when she noticed the way he went still behind her.

“You haven’t seen yourself yet?” He asked softly and when she didn’t answer, “Can I ask why?”

And though she knew he would ask her if she responded that way, Johanna still didn’t have a good answer. Or at least not an answer she really wanted to give. Because she recognized the feeling as fear; the same kind of fear she felt before she first announced herself to Harold, but… No, that wasn’t quite right. It was the fear she felt after that.

The fear when she woke up as John and wondered how much they were going to regret letting Johanna speak. Because Harold had easily, shortly after they’d gotten to know him – initial willingness, aside – become the most important man in their life. And for all the things they loved about him, for all the things they _knew_ about him, they understood him to be exceptionally kind. They’d wondered, instantly when they woke up the morning after they came out, however irrationally, whether it was love or just mercy that made Harold so easily accept Johanna as a part of John’s existence. However, the moment they’d seen his face that morning, still just as bright with love for them as it always was, they gratefully accepted that it was the former. For themself, they couldn’t be sure they would feel the same thing. John and never had any real concept of loving themself, but even after countless cycles of losing and hating themself, they always wound up back at acceptance, _now_ more so than ever. They knew who they were and what they stood for and what they were capable of as far as their life as John was concerned. Johanna, though…

Johanna hadn’t even been allowed to _breathe_ too loudly until recently, until this new life. She’d never had the chance to love herself because John spent the majority of his life terrified of her, the then nameless woman. She couldn’t be sure how she would feel, if she looked in the mirror and…

“I’m afraid…” She started after a long while, during which Harold stood patiently at her side. She swallowed, but otherwise stayed very still, “That if I look, if I see myself now, it’ll all be… I won’t be enough, anymore.”

“Enough for whom?”

“ _Myself_ ,” Looking down at her palms, Johanna’s eyes skirted over the callouses and she held her breath for a moment. Her hands were hands that had fought and worked hard; been burnt by triggers, pulled the pins on grenades, broken bones… and held babies. And gotten people back to their families and brushed hair from temples and brought lovers to their peak and pushed them over. And put Johanna together whenever she needed to come out. She held her fists to her chest; feeling overwhelmingly like she’d reached for something too far off and was about to topple over.

“I was happy,” She whispered her voice shuddering, “I was happy with what I’d gotten. With getting to be Johanna at all, even if it meant I only existed half-dressed at dinnertime. It was more than I’d ever had and I had _you_ to share it with, I… I was happy, but I let myself want more, I’ve never let myself want more, I don’t-…”

She stopped herself before she could get too frantic, half turning towards Harold, “If it doesn’t work… If I try to do _more_ , wear women’s clothing on top of everything else I’ve allowed myself recently, and it doesn’t turn out _right_ or good enough… How can any of the other things that happened be valid? How can I still be a woman?”

The last words shamed Johanna so very deeply she almost wanted to step out of herself completely. She knew she was a woman, had known it for longer than she had been willing to admit it. She was just as much a woman as John was a man, and yet _still_. Still, she feared that seeing herself in a dress would throw that feeling so off kilter she wouldn’t be able to right it again. She wouldn’t look _real_ and she’d feel even more stuck than she did on the days she couldn’t come out at all.

“Oh, Johanna…” Harold stepped around so he was directly in front of her, “The only thing required to make your identity valid is your _having_ it. You can express that however _you_ want to,” He took her hands and she looked down at him, found his face concerned but mercifully lacking any pity, “You have always been a beautiful woman, my dear. The moment you realized it yourself, it became true. The only thing that’s changed now, is your _wardrobe_.” He shook his head dismissively, but held her gaze intently, “This, everything that’s happened recently, it won’t change if you start to wear dresses exclusively or choose to never put one on again. That is your prerogative, _your_ womanhood. A mirror can never take that from you.”

There was a moment when Johanna thought that she was going to be ok. That she could just take that in for the comfort she found it to be and let it fuel her strength, because this was a kind of strength to exist like this. But, in truth, that struck a chord in her that was so unused to singing that she didn’t have the heart to stop it. It wasn’t that she hadn’t spent time comparing herself to other women before now, she knew, she’d always known she’d have to be different. But even John had always been different; it took a special kind of person to do what they’d done for years, even more so to do what they did on a regular basis nowadays. But there weren’t many times that their differences were something that they could celebrate, especially not for their own sake. Before, John – who was good at hurting people – did it for masters (because that’s exactly what they were) who saw him as a trigger finger. A tool, a means to an end, to be destroyed when it looked close to exploding in the hand that wielded it. And even now, John – who was still good at hurting people – did it for a cause they understood and supported fully. They saved people from causing a lot of pain, even if it was only to themselves. They trusted the man calling the shots with their life and the life of anyone they cared about – Harold was always looking out for them, even as he tried to save everyone else, too. That had saved them, yes, Harold and his mission had done them good. However, none of what they’d made themselves into over the many, many years of rebuilding themself had been _for_ them, on their own terms.

Femininity and everything about it, whatever they made it out to be, would be just for Johanna. She would be the sole beneficiary of her own actions, whether they were successes or fumbles, it would only ever be done for herself. Because Harold loved her, yes, but for every metaphor and technicality, this would never really be his body. While he might celebrate Johanna’s triumphs with her, only she could determine what triumphs were. This was her body and her womanhood; it would only end if she decided it. A dress could not break or make her identity.

Fighting back tears and wrinkling Harold’s sleeve in her fist as these thoughts rushed at her, Johanna felt herself coming back from the edge of the murky place they went to when they couldn’t find Johanna but couldn’t be John either. She felt herself breathing easier even as her throat got tight with emotion. It hurt, for some reason, to think of all this now, but it was a good kind of hurt – stretching a muscle that’d been clutched too tightly for too long.

Harold made a thoughtful sound when he noticed her tears, turning to grab her a tissue off of the night stand. He let his hand fall to her side as he watched her try to save her mascara.

“We will still have a lovely dinner whether the dress is present or not,” Harold said with kind eyes and Johanna felt the strong urge to kiss him right where his eyes crinkled, “But for whatever little it may be worth, I think you look beautiful.”

Taking his hands back, she did kiss him then, chuckling when he pulled away with red tinged lips. She just watched him, yet again awed by her love for this person, before hesitantly turning around. She let his hands go, stepping forward until she could look up and see her full form in the mirror.

The dress fit her nearly perfectly, even if she thought Harold would love to adjust some seams for her, but…

Turning in the mirror, looking slowly from this angle to that, she thought… it _fit._ The deep blue color and the way the dark threading of the flowers stood against her skin, oddly enough, made her feel that she looked almost regal. Like a woman with much more self-assurance than the look on her face presently implied. Even though she could see a few of the multitude of scars that called her body home sticking out above the collar, it didn’t offset her the way she thought they might have. They weren’t happy memories, by any stretch of the term, but they were memories that didn’t have a hold on John like they used to. Haunted them only on the late nights after bad days, but even today, with all its stress, had not been a bad day. She touched one of the scars with her fingertip, soothed by the warmth of her own skin, but then moved her hand to the collar instead. Watching in the mirror as she traced the flowers gently, swallowing more tears though they still clogged her voice.

“I want to keep it.” Johanna said and it sounded like a confession, “I like it.”

Leaning into him when Harold’s arm looped around her waist, she looked at their reflection in the mirror. He rested his cheek against her shoulder, “Look at us.” He smiled and she caught his hand again, “A homely old man and his beautiful young lover.”

Laughing made her tears spill over, but she wiped them away quickly and turned to hold him, “Oh, Harold, you a most certainly not _homely_.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should be on a little quicker for the home stretch!

Shaw and John were standing on the corner with Bear sitting attentively between them as they watched the officers shove their latest perp into the back of a squad car at the end of the block while Fusco tried to sooth the screaming child. It’d been a long day for her, but John knew he’d be able to sleep tonight – with no more difficulty than usual – knowing that they’d gotten to her before any serious damage had been done. She was scared and hungry, but her mothers were on the way and hopefully the resulting nightmares would last only long enough to give her a healthy wariness of people in vans who promise nice things.

Shaw stretched subtly, leaning against a nearby wall as they waited for Finch to join them, “So, what are you doing tonight?” She yawned, feigning disinterest.

John faintly arched an eyebrow at her, “You, maybe?” That little remark got him the finger.

They both looked up when Bear wiggled against Shaw’s thigh, catching sight of a familiar gait coming around the corner, “I want liquor.”

“Sounds fun,” The man replied stepping to the side as Finch took his place between them, “Only if Finch is invited.”

“Invited where?” Finch replied, petting Bear when the dog woofed at him.

“The nearest bar,” Shaw handed him the leash as they started to walk, sticking her hands in her pockets, “John’s buying boiler makers.”

“Am I, now?”

Finch smiled, “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline for the moment, Ms. Shaw.”

“What?” She smirked at him, setting an arm around his shoulder to pet his chest, “You too good to hit the dives with your minions?”

Finch looked mildly affronted by that, “Of course not. One of my houses is being sold tonight and Mr. Wren needs to make a brief appearance.”

“That means you’re making dinner for us, right?” John asked then, but something in his tone (and the way Finch’s face went blank – not flustered or annoyed, just _blank_ – for a moment) made Shaw turn to him. He was ignoring her. Or at least pretending to.

Her eyes narrowed as Finch’s eyebrows suddenly shot up, “Oh! I-…” The man glanced between them with a cautiously excited kind of nervousness that made Shaw wary, “Yes, I most certainly could? Are you…?”

“I’m sure,” John interrupted and smiled in that reserved way of his, “I’d really like Shaw to meet her.” He added softly and Shaw’s heart almost stopped. For all her medical knowledge and understanding that _words couldn’t hurt you that way_ , she was certain for a moment she was going to have a cardiac event.

“Her?” Shaw repeated, gaze darting between John and Harold, then again almost shouting, “ _Her?_ I thought…” Finch saw the impending episode and started to speak, but Shaw spun on him accusingly, “ _You_ said it was only us, _wh-…?_ ”

“It is.” John answered for the other man, stepping up to her with a move than insinuated touch. He drew back when she went stiff before him, eyes hard, “It’s just us, Sameen, nobody else.”

“I…” She stopped glancing between them, faced pinched and confused, before throwing her hands up as if to throw away her mild internal panic. She _hated_ not knowing what was going on, wasn’t used to feeling even _mild_ fear over things of this nature, she didn’t like this at _all._ She got the feeling she was about to get answers as to just what exactly had crawled up John’s ass, but she wasn’t even sure she wanted them…

She absolutely had to fucking have them.

“Fine. Whatever, _ok_ ,” She ground out, crossing her arms and bristling when both men looked like they wanted to hug her. Looking away from them, she continued, “It’s not like I have anything better to do. Where are we going for dinner?”

Even though she was still feeling slightly agitated, when Finch got close to her, she didn’t move away. He kissed her cheek even though she sneered like an embarrassed teenager about it, “I’ll text you both the address.” He assured her and blushed appropriately when John kissed him brazenly on the lips before letting the shorter man walk away, Bear in tow.

“Please stop looking like a jilted bride.” John said the moment Finch was out of earshot and it was only his quick reflexes that kept him from having his nuts busted. He caught her wrist and smiled down at her even as she seethed.

“ _You’re pushing it_.” She hissed.

“I know,” He said and even though he still smiled, his eyes went slightly dull, “I’m sorry.”

The tremor in her chest started again as she looked him up and down, “Are you sick?”

“Are you?” He asked, cheekily. Leaning over her, he kissed the tense spot between her eyebrows, “I’ll see you at dinner, Shaw.”

Several nervously hazy hours later, Shaw was pulling on some clothes after her shower when Finch finally texted her the address. Fifteen minutes later she was walking up the stairs to a little townhouse that looked well cared for in a way that was a little more familiar than the usual burner address.

Opening the door without preamble, she kicked off her shoes and greeted Bear warmly when he trotted up to her. She was already sitting on the counter by the sink, smirking back in the face of Finch’s longsuffering gaze when he finally turned from the stove, “Counters are for _food_ , Ms. Shaw.”

“You could eat me if you’d like, _Harold_.” She rolled his name off her tongue and she leaned back, amused, when he blushed at her.

“Glad to see you’re so cheerful,” He replied drily, gesturing over her shoulder, “Pass me the plates.”

She turned to reach into the cabinet behind her head, “I’m just surprised you gave me the address to your house.”

“I have many houses, Ms. Shaw.”

“This one I didn’t know about.” She held the plates out of his reach until he rolled his eyes and leaned up to kiss her.

She handed them over politely as he pulled away, “Well, to be fair, neither did John.”

“Speaking of the devil,” She sang, leaning back like she wasn’t getting nervous, “Where is he?”

The way Harold didn’t quiet look at her made her eyes narrow. He pulled a pan out of the oven, “I don’t think he’ll be joining us tonight.”

“ _Oh?_ ” The word slipped out a little more hostile than she’d meant to let it, but this game was one she was quickly growing weary of playing.

Harold came over and placed his hands on her knees and she had to suppress the urge to shove them off, “Just give it a moment, Sameen.”

Before she could even form her mouth to ask what that meant, she heard a door click open. It wasn’t the front door, it’d come from down the hall and she was instantly reaching for her piece when Finch caught her wrist. They stared at each other, his eyes asking her to relax, but she only let her hand be drawn away when she saw Bear jump up happily and dash down the hall – woofing, not snarling. There was no stranger in the house.

“Reese?” Shaw barked, ignoring Finch completely, though the way he sighed and stepped away concerned her.

“Technically, I guess.” John’s voice floated back from around the corner a moment later.

Lip curling instantly at the hitch in his tone, Shaw hopped off the counter, “What the hell does that-?” She stopped abruptly when the owner of the voice came fully into the room, stopping just short of crashing into each other.

Shaw’s mind fizzled out for the moment, completely unable to process what she was seeing.

Because she knew this body; she recognized the light in the eyes and the set in the shoulders and the scars showing across the chest, she recognized this body down to the way it _breathed._

But this was not a person she knew.

Where there should be a dress shirt there was a _dress_ ; a plain grey _baby doll_ dress that was cinched at the middle by a belt that existed for no more reason to be purely decorative. As was the floral scarf that was tied around their head, flowing down to rest at the sides of their neck. If that wasn’t enough to throw Shaw for a loop and a half, the mascara and pink lip gloss sure as hell- _holy shit, the pink lip gloss._

Shaw knew her mouth was open, a flurry of half formed words jammed in her throat, none of them enough and none of them _right_ , because this situation was more than she knew what to do with even if she could break it down.

“Ms. Shaw,” She only vaguely registered Harold’s voice, “This is Johanna.”

“ _Johanna_?” She parroted, eyebrows raising almost off her face.

“ _Yes_ ,” Came Harold’s clipped reply, not angry as much as highly stressed. But, really, how was she supposed to react to _that_ little tidbit of information? There _was_ no other woman, John- _Johanna_ was the other woman, if she was understanding this correctly, and she wasn’t sure of anything to be quite honest…

“Or Reese, if you’d rather,” Johanna replied evenly, face a passive slate, “I know how you are about last names and I never changed that…”

“… _Yeah_ ,” Shaw said after a moment, but still couldn’t think to say anything else. Did she say it was ok? Was that even her place? Did she get angry for not knowing? Not knowing what? She formed her question several times before she finally got out, “So… You’re… you’re a _chick_?” And she made a valiant effort not to sound suspicious. Because she didn’t know much about this kind of thing – the only word she could think of had gotten an old acquaintance beat to shit in _Le Marais*_ – but she could imagine being told you weren’t who you were was a bad way to go.

“Sometimes,” Was the response and Shaw leaned away from her.

They stared at each other, Johanna’s face schooled just as blank as John’s had been before the first time John had kissed her and Shaw _knew_ what that meant. She wasn’t expecting anything but a punch in the face, no matter how much she wanted something else. She wasn’t kidding around. This wasn’t a game to fuck with Shaw or test her loyalty or something, Johanna was dead serious.

And Shaw still didn’t have the slightest clue how to respond.

Watching her with the same calm focus John did when he was waiting for her to catch on, Johanna didn’t say another word. It was as annoying as it normally was, but she also found it comforting in its normalcy. She didn’t understand exactly what this was, what it meant for them, but she’d like to think she understood John.

John who felt things with more intensity than she did, though he habitually denied himself the things that made him feel too strongly. The happier you are, the harder you fall; a lesson Shaw had witnessed – and occasionally _taught the hard way_ – over the years. So… She guessed, it made sense in a way, didn’t it? If this was really who John was inside, floral print and soft billowing dresses, even if only sometimes, that he would never have let that escape before. This John, _Johanna_ would’ve been completely destroyed by John’s life if he’d let this show. This was too soft and honest for the work he’d done.

Often, Shaw looked up at the life she had and refused to think about it too hard because it was horrifying, wasn’t it? How many little things she could’ve done or anyone could’ve done that would’ve kept her from standing here, in a house where she was welcome, about to have dinner with her… every word she could come up with was too kitschy for her to willingly agree with _._ Whatever these two were to her, by any stretch of the imagination, this relationship should not be possible. She knew exactly how fortunate she was to have this job, this life, she’d always known. But right now she _felt_ lucky _._ Because the idea that John was strong enough to keep Johanna all these years, even if only as a thought or a feeling was, well, she wouldn’t use the word _miracle,_ but it was pretty damn amazing. And aside from that, the idea the Shaw was being trusted with the knowledge of her existence, that Johanna felt she was worthy of that trust… well…

Shaw was lucky. She was still a little confused and a lot awed and tons of other shit all mixed up, but _so_ damn lucky.

Maybe it showed on her face, because whatever change Johanna saw in Shaw then made her shoulders relax and the smile return to her eyes. Shaw eased as well, but Finch was too keyed up to notice.

The silence had pushed him to the extent of his ability to force calm. He took a step closer to his lovers, “I-I know this isn’t _quite_ what you were expecting, but-.”

“Finch.” She cut him off before he could start rambling full swing, barely turning to look at him, “I work for Batman for a living. I try not to expect _anything_ , I just…” Johanna smiled at her fully then and Shaw got flustered, “I, uh… Wow. Ok, uh, Johanna Reese, then.” She forced out, kicking herself for stumbling like a fool, “Take it my ol’ man’s been treating you well…”

Johanna leaned over her, invading her space in the same teasing way John did, “Well enough for me to put up with his trigger-happy little trouble maker?” She whispered stroking Shaw’s cheek, “It would seem so.”

Shaw sneered at her, turning to bite at her fingers, “Watch your step, _broad_.”

“Ladies, please.” Finch sighed, but it was fond not terse.

“She started it,” Shaw muttered, before turning to grab a plate, “So anyway, what’s the grub?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *It's a “gayborhood” in Paris


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of wax-play if that’s a problem for anyone.

Shaw and John both operated on the principle that they were the dominant one in their relationship, something that Finch frequently found himself marveling at. Outside of Numbers (and even during them, occasionally, despite his best efforts), he watched them posture over each other like it wasn’t just going to result in bruised lips and ripped clothing. Like in reality, they both wouldn’t willingly go down on their knees for Finch to do as he pleased with them. Whatever they got out of trying to, with varying degrees of success, _top_ each other was something entirely different than what they got from submitting to Harold.

Finch wasn’t exactly sure where Johanna factored into this.

To the best of his understanding, Johanna differed from John in presentation more than any distinguishable personality traits. Though Johanna only presented herself when John felt safe enough to soften his edges, to not have to be The Man in The Suit, they really weren’t all that different. The few times he’d had sex with Johanna hadn’t been dramatically different from any of the times before he was aware she existed. So perhaps, he thought, it just so happened that she hadn’t been present when any of them _needed_ a scene as of yet.

_So perhaps_ , he thought, he should’ve asked about that _before_ it became an issue they’d have to navigate on sight.

Because now Shaw was standing in the doorway of the living-room, having stopped just short of dropping to her knees, staring at Johanna with wild eyes. The paper bag she had in her fist crinkled as she clenched it, righting herself and swallowing, “I-…”

“Would you prefer I left?” Johanna interrupted before Shaw could finish, sitting up slightly from her reclined position on the couch.

And it wasn’t such an odd question, even then. For as much as John and Shaw liked to butt heads with each other, they understood that if they seriously started to fight over alone time with Finch, this whole set up would fall apart. They spent a lot of time as a three; it wasn’t out of line to ask for twos on occasion, even if not in as many words. Though Harold had the distinct inclination that this was a deeper question and _wished_ they all were more comfortable with direct questions when there was an emotional topic at hand. They hadn’t discussed, at length, what Johanna’s existence meant in the bigger part of their relationship – nobody was leaving, and that had been enough then. They’d had dinner the same as always, even if this time the conversation was carefully focused on Finch – the literary commentator and resigned target of sporadic, loving teasing. And that had been enough.

It wasn’t enough anymore and it was written all over Shaw’s face. She had no clue what to do.

Because, yeah, this was Reese, down at the bottom of everything, but _this_ Reese… She didn’t know if Johanna would be involved in everything the same way John was. John had sat through this with them before; John had held her down through it himself, but Johana might not even want to _see_ it and Shaw needed answers _now_.

“Would you prefer to leave?” She shot back, patience for this exchange – if it had even been long enough to call it that – wearing thin. She felt like she was about to shake apart – and for _no_ goddamn reason, on top of it all– and she needed to Stand Down and Finch (or John, too, yes, but _Johanna???_ ) was the only one allowed to put her there anymore.

Johanna gave a mild shrug, “Not particularly.” She answered, then to Finch warmly, “I’ll do whatever the Ol’ Man tells me to, same as usual.”

The ‘Ol’ Man’ didn’t seem to appreciate that very much except for the fact that he did. Wholeheartedly.

“If we’re all comfortable being here?” Harold asked and upon receiving two affirmative answers, nodded shortly. Standing back on familiar ground, he pushed to his feet and started to roll up his sleeves, “Johanna, if you would, take that bag from Sameen, we’ll continue in the bedroom. Oh, and there’s a plastic sheet and a fire extinguisher in the hall closet I require as well.”

As Johanna stood to do as he asked, smirking lightly the whole way, Harold looked over his glasses at Shaw, “Fold your clothes neatly once you take them off. Kneel there until I call for you.”

-

Shaw laid on her stomach, breathing deeply as Johanna used a sharp butterfly knife to scrape the cooled candlewax off her skin. The feeling of the wax coming away in chunks made her skin crawl almost as intensely as the idea of a deadly weapon in the hands of a person who knew a dozen different ways to use it did. She supposed, in a way, that it should’ve been an unpleasant sensation, but couldn’t deny the satisfying ripples it sent through her whole body. She was putty under the other woman’s hands.

Moments like this had taught her she could be relaxed around other people without losing anything for it. A dangerous lesson, she thought, but one she allowed herself to take heed of. They were not her enemies, and more than allies, they were _partner_ partners. They wouldn’t betray her.

It was also during moments like this, with somebody making her feel good and somebody bustling around restoring order to the room, that she let herself speak freely about what she’d found when they pushed her down here. She now knew why they’d laughed at her when she suspected them of cheating, but she still didn’t get all the shiftiness about the whole thing.

“Reese.” She muttered, like she wasn’t presently having wax peeled off her ass. This is why she shouldn’t let herself get this relaxed, it made it too easy to speak.

“Yes, Shaw?” Johanna replied, hands moving just as steadily as before, moving slowly up to Shaw’s lower back.

Shaw could hear Finch moving about the room tidying up, but even as he continued bustling, she felt his attention snap to her when she said, “Before you… told me. About you being a lady and all…”

The knife paused against her skin only for a moment, “Yes?”

“Did you think…?” She turned her head vaguely in Johanna’s direction and the words stalled in her throat. She wasn’t sure what exactly she intended to ask, “Did you think I wouldn’t…?”

_Want you_ , was the only thing that came to mind, but Shaw had never used those words in any similar context before. It made her pause to think if they would even count for anything if she said it now. Because she knew she wasn’t warm and fuzzy, not even around them, not the way most people got around their significant others, but that was just her. And they’d taken her for how she was – faults and blood an all – because, in the end, they were alike in that way. Warped but not destroyed, holding it together for the same purpose and same people. But Johanna wasn’t John, even though she was, and had had different reservations about this. John was secretive when he wanted to be, but he was also honest with himself and rarely cut Shaw off from seeing him as he was. And so, she had to wonder what made Johanna hesitate at the thought of Shaw seeing her…

“Stay?” She finished the question, but she knew she hadn’t even needed to by the way Johanna sighed before she even got the word out.

“I just didn’t know, Shaw.” Johanna replied, shifting further up the bed smoothing the wax fragments off Shaw’s back. She frowned when she was met with a laugh, sharp, but not in a way that was mean – it was too flat, too resigned to sound angry.

Shaw turned her face back into her arms, “You didn’t know.”

The look the other two shared across her back was palpable, but she didn’t say anything, because _shit_ , she couldn’t even get her face right. What was she doing here with these people? These people who felt soft towards her and were good to her and made her _feel_ something – something ugly and tight – for mistrusting her? How could any of this be _right_? Knowing that should not hurt because it made _sense_ ; John could’ve gotten _killed_ for this if…

She was suddenly so angry she could hardly breathe as her mind righted itself into something more like normal, because that was the gist of it, wasn’t it? For Johanna, trusting someone enough to come out to them was trusting them with her _life_. If anyone in John’s life prior to now had known about her, it could’ve been catastrophic. If John survived the encounter, Johanna would’ve just become another pressure point – something to be exploited so John did as his handlers wanted. Because the life John had lived, the whole fucking _world_ they lived in, was not made for her. The safe spaces that existed for other people like her, if safe was even the word, had not been accessible, not in John’s line of work. She had to share herself in small tiny places, where she could see all the angles and know they wouldn’t hurt her. Finch who loved deeply and entirely, would never walk away from them, not after everything they’d been through – he made sure they knew that. But Shaw had purposefully built herself as a flight risk, she always did when faced with something as laced with emotions as relationships could be. Coming out to Shaw couldn’t have been an easy venture, it’d been a _risk_ … Yet Johanna still took it and that made Shaw’s throat tight.

Johanna, who knew Shaw and always would, pulled the knife away when the woman’s breathing changed, but left a hand on her spine, “I couldn’t even accept myself for a long time, Shaw,” She tried to assuage, and Shaw just wanted her to _stop_ because she didn’t want an _apology_ , “I… I always assume…”

“The worst, yeah, I know, I do, too. It’s…” Shaw cut her off then, stopping and twisting to look up at her, ignoring the way the last section of wax pulled at her skin, “…I’m _really_ fucked up.”

“Sameen,” Finch said sharply.

“No, shut _up_ , I- it’s true.” She wasn’t looking at either of them now, eyes wide and staring at something they couldn’t see, “I mean, my emotions are _so_ shot. I don’t process fear well, I don’t understand pleasantries, I lack the _patience_ to deal with most people and act like a _person_ , I _know_ that _._ I’m really…” She swallowed, “I’m pretty cold.”

“That’s not-.” Johanna tried to pipe in, but Shaw steamrolled over her with the quietest voice she had.

“But I _love_ you,” The words fluttered out in the voice of a child trying to apologize when they didn’t even understand what they’d done. It hurt Johanna’s heart to hear it and if she hadn’t been able to see Shaw’s face, she’d have thought the other woman was crying.

“It shouldn’t be _possible_ , but I love you,” Shaw forced out a little stronger but just as shaken, flicking her eyes at them, “Enough that I can say it out loud and not feel like they’re just _words_ ,” She sucked in an unsteady breath and looked down, “And that means I’m holding onto you with everything I got, because something about you,” She motioned between them, “About you _two_ is special, ok? I don’t know what it is, I can’t explain it, but there’s fucking nothing that could make me give you up…” And with those last words she put her face back into her arms, weary and trembling, “ _Especially_ fucking not something like you being a chick, Johanna, _Christ_ …”

The frustration in her voice filled Johanna with that same familiar fondness it always did and she pressed her lips together, enamored beyond words. The tension bled out of the room as she saw Finch’s slight smile out of the corner of her eye when she whispered hoarsely, “Ok,” Leaning down to kiss the middle of Shaw’s back, still tender from the wax, and resting her hand on the woman’s hip, “Ok, Sameen. Thank you.”

Shaw huffed out a breath, speaking against the blanket, “Do you…? Do you feel the same way _John_ Reese does about me?” Then with an agitated shrug, “Whatever the fuck that even is?”

“I’m still the same person,” She reminded gently but it wasn’t nearly as patronizing as it could’ve been, starting back at peeling the wax away, “I still feel the same things, just… slightly differently, I suppose.”

“Meaning?”

“Even if I’m less inclined to shoot things with you,” Johanna whispered, brushing the last bit of wax away and resting her cheek in the space it left, “I still love you, too.”

Shaw wanted to bristle with embarrassment over that “too” because she’d confessed to some things she’d never meant to acknowledge that deeply and Johanna _had_ to know that. But she couldn’t muster more than a blush, instead reeling with the stark sense of relief she felt.

“And you’re not cold. Not to us,” The wax littered about her sides tickled when Johanna shifted so that she was half on top of Shaw’s side, resting comfortably.

“Indeed,” Finch’s voice came from behind them before his hand fell on her neck, “If we’re special, so are you, Sameen.”

Johanna stole her opportunity to argue with that by whispering, “Our very special snowflake.”

“I’m warning you…” She hissed, pinching _some_ part of the woman’s skin with her nails.

“Alright, alright,” Johanna chuckled, pressing the blade of the knife flat against her back in a false threat, “Wouldn’t want to ruin your tough reputation.”


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning found Shaw kneeling over John’s lap – or at least she thought this was John. She’d just woken up in the haze of a nightmare and before she’d really given herself the chance to think about it, swiftly and softly, she was on top of them. Finch shifted minutely on the bed beside them and the two went still, watching out of the corner of their eyes, until he settled again – his quiet, almost-snore returning to normal.

Hands slid up her hips a moment later, silently requesting her eyes and she acquiesced. She met their gaze and understood immediately that the mild sleepiness she was allowed to see there was a sign of trust; the focus they place on her was out of dedication and respect, not fear. They held her hips and she held her breath and they both waited.

John didn’t look down when her hand fell on their chest, but they sobered. She was digging her nails into their skin, not like she wanted to hurt them, but like she was clinging to them, wanted them to _feel_ that, “No more secrets like that,” She breathed almost silently, “Not like that…”

Turning to look at Finch, her mouth twisted almost in scorn, but her eyes so tender John ached with her. “I gave you everything.” Shaw mumbled, staring down at their chest, “I never meant to let anyone have those words, not from me, not _honestly._ ” She sucked in a breath, “You have _everything_ so don’t fucking hold shit over my-…”

“Come _here_ ,” John interrupted softly, grabbing her wrists and pulling her until she was sprawled on top of them. When she was close enough that her hair framed their head, they took her face in their hands, “Our lives are built on secrets, Sameen. We can’t undo a lifetime of damage, but chances are most of them will be _between_ us from now on.” They stroked her cheeks lightly, “Finch is trying his best to make honest people out of us.”

They smiled when she sneered at them, “And how’s that working?”

“Splendidly.” The two turned when Finch’s sleep-rough voice piped in from beside them. He squinted at them without his glasses, looking ruffled and fit to fall back asleep, “Considering all the parts were already there.”

A quip about how incredibly tacky that was sat just on the tip of Shaw’s tongue, but then John was turning so she was tucked under their chin, Finch’s arm pressed against her back.

“You got us, Shaw,” They muttered, stroking their thumb absently on her shoulder, “Cards face up.”

Shaw sighed against them, but sunk into the space between the two of them comfortably, “I don’t understand all the cards.” She admitted softly, frustrated.

“Neither do we,” John replied with a small shrug, “But we play the hands we’re dealt, right?”

There was a moment where Shaw thought to break that metaphor, just to be contrary, because this wasn’t a game, there was so much at stake here… But she couldn’t work herself up enough to break the peace in the room; she settled with a half assenting hum. Wrapping her arm around John’s side, and hooking one of her feet under Finch’s knee, she let herself rest. Reese, regardless of whether they were John or Johanna, was still Reese. They weren’t breaking or distancing themself they were just…

Shaw mentally shrugged and closed her eyes; they were just, after years of drowning themself, finally surfacing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t originally going to be the end, but originally I had no clue what I was doing and this works a lot better! Some other little things might be added to this verse as part of a series, so if you liked this look out for those later! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> (A gender confused author is writing a trans*/bigender character. If you think I misstep with something, hit me up, call me out!)
> 
> Questions/Comments/Concerns?


End file.
